


Herculean Task

by Berrybanana



Series: Blood Rose [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Hanahaki Disease, Possibly Unrequited Love, Professor Albus Dumbledore, Research, Self-Indulgent, Self-Sacrifice, Sequel, Spells & Enchantments, Time Travel, Time Turner (Harry Potter), Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2020-03-09 19:29:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18923566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Berrybanana/pseuds/Berrybanana
Summary: Tom Riddle would find a way to beat this disease without losing his memories or he would die trying. That was a promise.-When he was cruel, she was kind. When he was angry, she was soothing. When he was uninspired, she was brilliant.She captured his heart in no more than a few short months. A Herculean task even without the time limit.She was his undoing.(And yet, he loved her.)





	1. Vow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to make this the second chapter of Blood Rose but in the end, I decided to leave that one as it is. I like its ambiguous ending so this is an *optional* sequel.
> 
> Please read 'Blood Rose' first! It's short, don't worry. :)

Riddle stared at the ceiling, body convulsing in odd bursts.  
It was his own fault, really.  
Now and again he had seen a softer look enter her eyes as she looked at him- usually after he spouted something particularly brilliant, witty, kind, or clever. She had looked at him with new eyes, like she was not seeing the irredeemable, like she was not gazing upon the Devil himself with affection in her eyes.  
That was when he made sure to commit a particularly cruel act and have her watch. He had her there, helpless to stop him, forced to confront the reality that Tom Riddle is not a boy you fall in love with.  
She had done him no such favours.  
When he was cruel, she was kind. When he was angry, she was soothing. When he was uninspired, she was brilliant.  
She captured his heart in no more than a few short months. A Herculean task even without the time limit.  
She was his undoing.  
_(And yet, he loved her.)_

 

Eventually, Dumbledore spoke.  
“It’s time, Tom.”  
“No.” Tom snapped. The threat in his tone was somewhat diminished by the fact his words came out as barely a rasp, vocal cords wrecked from coughing. One of the many flower bouquets littering his section of the ward caught his eye and he stared at it disdainfully. He had had enough of flowers for a lifetime.  
Of course, that didn’t stop him from making his opinion of Dumbledore’s master plan perfectly clear-  
“I won’t let you.”  
Dumbledore’s voice was coaxing, pleading. The bed-ridden Head Boy ignored it.  
“Tom. You are _dying_. Unless I perform this spell, you _will_ die.”  
Once upon a time, the thought of death would’ve had Tom scrambling for a solution, begging for a cure. That changed with the arrival (and departure) of a certain Hermione Granger. That and the words of the girl in the smoke.

“I will not let that future come to pass. If you remove my memories of her, whatever she did to change me- to change how I feel- it will be undone. I can’t let you do this. I refuse to harm her and those she holds dear.”  
Dumbledore sighed. This would all have been a lot easier if that girl in the ritual had not told Tom of his future self and Tom hadn’t- despite all of the odds- fallen in some kind of love with Miss Granger.  
To tell the truth, he had thought it impossible.   
The flower petals decorating Tom’s chest seemed to disagree.

“If you don’t live on to become Voldemort, our universe could become stuck in a time loop. It could erase their reality- ours- all of time and space! It could break time! End the lives of millions! Anything could happen!”  
“Exactly.” Tom cut in, eyes still sharp despite the cloud fogging his brain. “Anything could happen. And what about the millions that will die if I do become that- that thing?”  
He refused to call his future self Lord Voldemort. That thing he would become was a mere shade of what Voldemort was supposed to be. Splitting his soul had truly driven him mad, it seemed, and he refused to have any part in it all. He would not kill the Potters. He would not harm Hermione. He would not allow the Wars to be waged. He would not let Dumbledore take his memories from him.

  
He coughed again, slowly sitting forwards as his whole body shook.  
Dumbledore watched grimly.  
Tom Riddle would to find a way to beat this disease without losing his memories or die trying. That was a promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, that's not going to end well.  
> Research, alternate realities(?), and time-travel incoming.


	2. Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom recounts how he tried to hide his sickness in the beginning and also on Dumbledore’s growing suspicion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally figured out what the hell I wanted to do with this chapter, *yay*-

“Wise men say  
Only fools rush in,  
But I can't help  
Falling in love  
with  
you.”

-Falling in Love by Elvis Presley (Amazing cover by Haley Reinhart)

* * *

 

Tom remembers what it was like, in the beginning.  
The overwhelming panic, the fluttering feeling in his lungs like a bird had flown inside the cage of his heart and was trying to tear its way back out.  
All thought, all logic had left his brain in one fell swoop as Tom Riddle had stared at the thing curled up in the palm of his hand.  
A rose petal.

 _It shouldn’t be possible. And yet it lies there, its very existence taunting him._ _He crushes it, whole body stiffening as he thinks._

 _His first instinct is to perform the spell. It will rip these flowers from their roots and his memories from his brain. Not painless, not lacking consequences, but a great deal preferable to death._  
_His fingers twitch against his wand._  
_Slowly, laboriously, he pulls it from his robes. Looks at it. Stares at it. Balances it between his fingers as if waiting just a moment longer will cause an alternate solution to spring into existence.  
_ _It doesn’t._

_He thinks of her- golden eyes, golden laugh, golden heart- and agony strikes again._

He remembers the pain like it was yesterday- he thought it was bad then. He was hilariously, horribly wrong. The pain was nothing compared to the fire burning in his chest now.

_His wand slips from his grip and slender fingers spread across the planes of his chest. He presses them firmly into the flesh as if the pressure will relieve the pain or push the skin back to reveal bloody thorns beneath. Neither happens._

Tom hears the rush of questions again, the fears that leapt and danced through his mind-  
How had this happened to him?  
Was the disease contagious? He was certain it wasn’t. How could one catch feelings from another?

_He remembers the look on her face when she spoke about them on the rare occasion she shared her carefully-tailored stories. At first it was a distant, cautious tone. Flat, sorrowful eyes that occasionally creased with pained mirth. But then she dove right into the details, talking of potions and wand fights and dragons and werewolves- of presents and hot chocolates and Christmases by the fire. Books of all shapes and sizes, arguments, jokes, laughter. Loud moments, quiet moments, secret moments. Sorrow would soar into radiant joy and her triumphant eyes would meet his and just for a split second it would be like he had been there too, right alongside them, right in the thick of it. Like he had cursed the person chasing after them, like he had been at her back when Grindlewald grew near. Like he had been one of ‘her boys’. Then her face would slowly fall. Her eyes would glitter with building tears. And the voice that danced and swooped and sang-  
It would fall silent._

_He doesn’t realise his hands have curled into fists until the pain registers and he opens his hand to find a row of bloody crescents dashed across his palm._

No, you couldn’t catch feelings from another.  
But you could catch feelings for them.  
  
_She was like a wildfire, burning through the class rankings, through the centuries old gender roles, through the text books and every spell the school could throw at her. She was a diamond among coal, a swan amongst ducklings._  
_She was everything he could desire in a follower._  
_(_ _In a partner.)_  
  
_She’s also everything he can’t have._  
_He lets the crushed petal fall from his fingers and reaches into his pocket to check that the slip of paper is still there- it is._  
Careful fingers trace the swirling letters.

He runs his fingers along his wand, staring at the hospital wing ceiling.   
He should let Dumbledore perform the spell, he knows. He tried it himself. But the thought of forgetting her-  
Well. To him, it’s a thought worse than death.

* * *

 

**THEN**

Tom picks up his wand in one elegant motion and points it straight at his chest, pressing the tip into his skin. He closed his eyes. Just a simple spell. Just a simple spell and everything can go back to how it was.  
His hand trembles.

 _A Dark Lord does not have room for love._  
He performs the spell.  
Tom twists his wand through the air, envisioning the flowers falling and changes it ever so slightly at the very last moment.  
He shears the flowers at their roots and vanishes them from where they fall. He plucks out the scattered seeds and burns away every last trace. His memories, however, he leaves intact.  
He knows it won’t work and he knows why, but he has to try.  
The Slytherin leaves the room with a creeping sense of unease and dismisses it. He ignores the ominous tickling in his throat and wakes the next morning to blood flecks on his lips and the thick perfume of roses in his lungs. 

//

The next few days are a nightmare.  
Lessons seem to drag on in a way they never did before- Tom loves knowledge, loves magic, craves it like an addict. Every spell sends a thrill through his chest, every success leaves him smirking, barely biting back a smile...  
But not this week.  
He’s barely keeping up in class and the teachers that have gotten used to his and now Hermione’s-  
_A sharp twist in his chest-_  
He braces himself, knuckles going white as he grips the desk like a drowning man grasps at a raft.  
_The teachers had gotten used to the two of them_ fighting to answer every last question while the rest of the class watched, some amused, some irritated, some intrigued.  
Now they ask questions to a silent classroom, to unwilling hands. Slughorn has called on him nearly three times now and each time he’s barely managed a sufficient reply between muffled coughs.  
_“I guess the stories are true”,_ he muses _. “Love really does make you deaf, foolish, and blind.”_

_//_

Homework normally completed weeks in advance begins to pile up and assignments go unfinished. Extension after extension is given and people are beginning to enquire after his health, after his mind.  
Tom grins and bears it.  
_“Is there anything you’d like to tell me, Tom?”_  
_“No, sir.”_  
Disappointed eyes follow him. Tom never thought he’d miss the twinkling.  
So what if his skin is pale and his eyes are bruised? So what if his hands tremble and every other word is punctuated by a cough? His mind is foggy? So what?  
So everything. Every plan, every contact, every opportunity. The rich and powerful don’t mix with the mad but Tom can’t quite bring himself to care.  
Dying really does bring everything into perspective.

He’s invited down to the lake by a sweet Ravenclaw with wild brown hair and shining eyes.  
He accepts. He makes it as far as the first oak tree-  
_He leans against the wood, raising an eyebrow with almost-playful derision. “Really, Granger? A sticking charm?” She grins at him, ever so pleased with her primary-school level tactic and pulls out her folder._    
_“You should know better than to mess with me, Riddle. Besides, I can’t have you wandering off in another huff before we get this assignment finished.”_  
_He smirks and with a witty comment or two the pair of them are grinning, eyes flashing as they launch into another ‘debate’-  
_The Slytherin bolts back to the safety of the castle and explains through a long and apologetic note that he _really isn’t up to it, but he sends his sincerest apologies-_

 

Tom Riddle, in every sense of the word, is coming undone. And yet he still tries to hide it.  
With the determination of a Slytherin he pulls himself together, tearing mercilessly through his assignments. He burns through candle after candle in the dead of the night, going through a whole ink pot in his endeavour to regain a sense of normality (Tom Riddle, esteemed Head Boy and Slytherin is always two steps ahead, never behind-) and applies glamour after glamour until his skin is unblemished, the deep bruising under his eyes has faded, and his rumpled uniform appears pristine.  
The questioning gazes fade back to the normal adoration and the whispers go quiet.  
His hand is back up as often as before and he can almost hear the school’s collective sigh of relief- nothing is amiss.  
(Nothing except the flowers that just won’t go away. )

Slughorn doesn’t help matters with his probing questions and obnoxious comments- “Ah, Tom, my dear boy- I daresay I was worried for a while- you took the loss of our dear Miss Granger rather hard but I am glad to see you back to normal! It is a shame, the two of you made quite the pair-“ and Riddle fights back the rising itch at the back of his throat. He smiles, albeit not quite as charmingly as usual, and thanks the professor for his concern.He tries to ignore the painful pressure of tendrils creeping beneath his skin as Slughorn continues to waffle about the loss of one of his ‘most promising students’.

// 

Every free period is spent in the library, pouring over ancient texts. He thinks and he strategises and he plans but no book lends him answers. None he’s satisfied with, anyway.  
Riddle examines the first book- the book that first told him of what ailment had befallen his best Knight- and reads the two treatments detailed there.  
Neither will do. He’s not willing to forget Granger, he’s not quite that desperate yet _(it’s an almost suicidal stubbornness that stays his hand- normally, the threat of death has him mentally quaking but whatever this is, it isn’t normal. What he feels for the witch is like nothing he’s ever felt before and besides, he cannot become the thing he was told about)_.  
The only problem is, he can keep cutting back the flowers all he likes, but his- his ‘love’ just makes them grow back- sometimes faster than before. Time is running out. There has to be something else.  
He tears through section after section but no solution jumps to attention and his frantic recounts of his conversations with Hermione yield no clues, only a steadily growing pain twisting throughout his body.

He precariously balances schoolwork with research and wonders how long he can last in a race with no finish line.

* * *

  

**NOW**

Tom coughs, expression twisting in discomfort. It’s almost pitiful, how far he’s fallen. He’s confined to a hospital bed, wearing the same robes as the week before, avoiding looks of pity and wistfulness.  
His knights hover around him and with a sharp tone, he sends them scurrying.  
Only one remains.  
Tom purses his lips in thought and rolls over.  
“Malfoy.”  
“Yes, Riddle?”

“Get me one of these, will you?”  
He holds out a list, raising an eyebrow expectantly.  
Abraxas nods. He takes it.  
“Of course.”

Tom says it like an order, but notices the phrasing all too late. He’s gone soft, treating his followers more amicably, even in private. Not that Abraxas really counts- he’s been more of a friend than a follower these past weeks. (Ever since the boy had found out what Tom had done for Hermione- he’d always had a bit of a soft spot for her so when she went missing and Tom didn’t flip out, Abraxas had assumed the worst and threatened Tom at wand-point. Tom easily disarmed him and, in a rare show of empathy, revealed that he had sent Hermione home.)  
Tom reaches for the next book in the piled stacked haphazardly between vases and knickknacks.

Six months ago, he would have been horrified. He would’ve found away to scare them to hell and back, to reclaim the dominance he’d relinquished.  
Three months ago, he would’ve ignored his discomfort in favour of seeing the slight smile, the spark of surprise light up in Granger’s eyes.  
He turns to the first page.  
Today, he grudgingly accepts it. Tom Riddle acknowledges, for better or for worse, Hermione Granger has caused some form of change in him.  
And he’s decided that he doesn’t really want to give it up.  
_He will find another cure._

Another one of Dumbledore’s owls flies into the infirmary (much to the irritation of those in charge) and Tom incendios the letter- the plea- as it lands.

 _He has to._


	3. Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom recalls a past conversation.

“Of all the love I have taken, all the hearts I’ve turned to hate  
Hearts are easily broken when you’re bein’ made in the shade”  
-Judgement Day (Stealth)

 

Tom remembers how Dumbledore stopped him, right as his foot passed the threshold of the now-empty classroom.  
_“Tom! Would you mind staying behind after class, for a moment?”_  
_A pause._  
_“Of course, sir.”_  
The Head Boy forces a polite smile onto his features. Neither of them are fooled. Dumbledore has always been able to see straight through him.

He remembers how the professor waited, smiling benignly, as Tom stepped away from the safety of the crowded halls and headed back towards the front of the classroom.  
How hilariously foolish he’d been. How unprepared.  
_“I was hoping to talk to you about Voldemort.”_  
_Tom drops his bag. He’s dimly aware of the books that have gone flying, of the ink pot that has no doubt smashed and leaked ink over the precious pages._  
“I beg your pardon?”  
_“And your Horcruxes.”_  
Tom isn’t quite sure if he heard him right, if he’s even still breathing.  
“Oh, and your rather unfortunate fixation on blood purity.”

Tom Riddle prides himself on his near-perfect mask and flawless self control (that seems to be fading, now he thinks of it) but hearing the professor throw out all of his deepest, darkest secrets like that after years of dancing around the issue, years of cold, suspicious glances and irritating passing comments about the ‘Power of Love™’-  
Well.  
Surely that warranted some kind of reaction?

_With difficulty, he pulls himself together, and meets the man’s eyes._  
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”  
_The ink seeping into his once-nice shoes seems to disagree. The lie is a poor one, a classic failure that he finds himself regretting the moment it slips from his lips._    
_Dumbledore looks at him, not unkindly for once, and tells him in the gentlest of tones that it’s ‘never too late to change’._  
_Tom scoffs and turns on his heel.  
_ _It’s a little reckless and a terrible idea, but when you’re inching towards death nothing really seems like a bad idea anymore. Besides, what proof does the old fool really have?_

Dumbledore, of course, he muses, was entirely too open.  
_“Where did you pick up those ideas Tom? Your fellow Slytherins?”_  
That almost makes Tom stop walking. A wave of irritation hits him at the insinuation that the only place he could’ve picked up something so ‘depraved’ was from the house of snakes- prejudiced Gryffindor.  
_Every house has its fair share of pureblooded families and every house has its fair share of blood purists. The Ravens, the Lions, the Snakes, and the Badgers, the only difference between them is that Slytherin is a little more vocal about their opinion on the matter. Tom had mixed with purebloods from all over England and they all had the same thing to say- magic was growing weaker and weaker generation by generation and the only difference they could find was the increasing number of muggleborns in their community._  
_“It’s odd. I always took you to be more of a leader than a follower, Tom.”_  
_That’s it._  
Tom stops.  
“Gryffindors, actually.”

He hadn’t entirely been lying. In first year, before he’d learned the power of a disarming smile and carefully chosen words, he’d been one of the many victims of the purebloods’ prejudice. He still remembers the fear and shame that had rushed through his veins when Charles Figg had practically thrown him down the astronomy tower stairs, suggesting that his silence over his parentage could only mean he was a ‘magic-stealing mudblood’. Tom had punished him in his later years for it, of course, but the words had stuck with him.  
He found himself trying to pass himself off as pureblood- even succeeding. No one doubted his word. After all, a half-blood or a muggleborn surely couldn’t perform as well as Tom did.  
And if Tom listened a little closer when purebloods spouted rot about blood and power and all that, who cared?  
And if Tom slowly, reluctantly, began to believe it, what did it really matter?

_He looks Dumbledore in the eye._  
_Smiles, coldly._  
_“Besides. It’s a bit late for you to pretend to care now, Professor.”  
_ _This time, when he tries to leave, Dumbledore doesn’t stop him._

 

**THEN**

The next time Tom Riddle finds himself in the library, he’s horrified to find himself actually reflecting on the man’s words, and more pressingly, the words of the girl in the smoke.  
_“I always took you to be more of a leader than a follower, Tom.”_  
“Do you want to know what happens in the future, Tom Marvolo Riddle? You lose. All your hatred, your cruelty, your prejudice is for nothing. Brilliant muggleborns ace every class and some of your precious purebloods can’t even stand a cauldron the right way up.  
_You’re a murderer- a killer- a torturer- and all for nothing.”_  
Her eyes had flashed as she said it, her whole body tensing like a coiled spring, ready to pounce or flee at any moment.

Tom tears through section after section of the library but still no solution jumps to attention and his frantic recounts of his conversations with Hermione yield no clues, only a growing pain twisting throughout his body.   
The words of the Girl still won’t leave him, and if the burning in his chest isn’t enough, memories of a similar debate with Granger just have to spring up.

_“Where did they come from, anyway?”_  
_The question is sudden, unprompted. They lean against the oak tree nearest the castle, halfway to the lake and Tom turns his head to look at her, his most loyal follower._  
_“Pardon?”_  
“The ideas about blood purity.”  
She turns her head, meets his eyes.  
_“Who decided that all the mug- mudbloods were unworthy?”_  
She stumbles over the slur, correcting her mistake at the last moment. Tom almost admires her for it. Her ability to see past her peers’ prejudice enough to almost call them muggleborns. To almost acknowledge them as something different, but not worse. It’s a trait rarely found in Purebloods.  
_He sometimes has the odd feeling that if he were ever to reveal to her his half-blood roots that she wouldn’t shun him- wouldn’t breathe a word. He isn’t stupid enough to give in to the impulse, however._  
_Instead, he looks away, to the lake._  
_“Purebloods, of course. We saw that magic was fading- losing its potency. And we saw that mudbloods were marrying into our families, stealing our magic and diluting it.”_  
_It’s a while before she speaks again, but her voice is flatter now, almost disappointed._  
_“Of course. It was a foolish question. Forgive my impertinence, my Lord.”_    
_Tom can’t help but feel that he’s said something wrong when her mask comes out. When the warmth behind her deliverance of the name ‘Riddle’ (his godforsaken muggle name) is replaced by the cold, detached title of ‘My Lord’._  
_He ought to be pleased. He was, when she used the title at first. When anyone did._  
_But after growing used to her warmth, he finds her coldness unbearable._  
_“I’ll think nothing of it.”  
_ _But he does. It’s a whole week before he can banish the conversation from his mind, the disappointment in her tone, and the distant look in her eyes._

Tom re-evaluates his plans, re-reads old books and laws and rituals and he wonders if it’s not the muggles making the magic (his only refuge, his only saving grace-) disappear but the wizards.  
He reads through the list of the thousands of spells and practices banned so far. He remembers the looks of surprise that flitted across Hermione’s face every now and again when a more dangerous spell was taught or when her magic reacted more strongly than she was expecting.  
She rarely pulled her punches in a duel…  
Tom wonders if it was always on purpose.  
He props open a book and begins to write as, surely, it wouldn’t hurt to do a little extra research?  
After all, he is a half-blood and he does just as well as the purebloods (if not better).

 

 **NOW  
** Tom looks wearily down at the book in his lap.  
‘Malathew’s Moste Mystic Arts’-  
If he wasn’t so desperate he thinks he might’ve set the bloody thing aflame. Page after page is nothing but nonsense proved incorrect by years of new magical theory. He throws his head back, looking at the ceiling.  
When he looks down again, pages flying past wildly on release, his eyes widen. He grabs the book, flicking back to the words he was so certain he’d seen-  
Yes.  
_“Cure to the Curse of Unrequited Affection-_  
The curse is often referred to as Narcissus’ Revenge, Blooming Death, or most rarely, the Hanahaki Disease. Notable cases include-“  
Tom skimmed the paragraph, looking for details on the cure.

Quickly, he found it.  
A potion, brewed over the span of three months containing fairly simple ingredients to find.  
The three months was the only real issue but he was certain that he could hang on that long as long as he was careful.  
It was the answer, he realised, excitement finally beginning to build. He kept reading, listing ingredients, making notes on the parchment on the bedside table.   
He might actually be able to beat this.

His elation faded, however as he read the warning in minuscule print at the very bottom of the page-  
_“CAUTION- may have unpredictable effects on the emotions of the drinker. Must be taken daily._  
_Side effects may include sudden bursts of anger, heightened irritability, increased nausea, bouts of forgetfulness, dizziness, unpredictable highs, uncontrollable flatulence-“_  
He closes the book right then and there. He pinches the bridge of his nose. It might’ve even been amusing if time weren’t running out. He thinks his followers- friends?- might’ve sniggered if they read the passage. He can hear it now, see the eye roll he’d deliver, see her smug smile-

He adds the book to the disturbingly large ‘to be returned pile’ and takes a deep breath.  
Don’t think about her.

_He still has time._

 

_He just has to use it effectively._


	4. Caught

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry! This one is pretty short :')

"“I can’t help but love you  
Even though I try not to  
I can’t help but want you  
I know that I’d die without you”  
-War of Hearts (Ruelle)

 

Tom remembers how it all fell apart.

_Tom staggers between classes and collapses into empty stairwells in a fashion that reminds him so horribly of that day and vomits petal after petal until he’s hacking up whole flower heads. He tastes mercury and pollen. His every breath is accompanied by the rustling of leaves._

_“I have to perform the spell, I have to-“_  
_But he can’t. She’s made him feel alive. His smirks are softer, his eyes shine brighter, his laughs are louder. He’s dying, looking sicker and sicker with every day but he’s never felt more alive._  
_It all comes to a head, however, when he walks into the wrong Potions Classroom and sees the fatal word scrawled in white chalk._  
_Amortentia._  
_But this time, this one god-damned time out of hundreds it hits him._  
_Old parchment curling beneath his fingers, freshly-cut grass and spearmint toothpaste. The musty smell of a misshapen jumper, the slightest waft of lavender, a touch of honey._  
_Their voices drift in and out of focus as the ground rushes up to meet him_  
_But all he can see_  
_Smell_  
_Hear  
_ _Is her._

He remembers how Dumbledore found him sprawled in a stairwell, throwing up everything from last night’s dinner to a bouquet of roses, dripping with blood.  
_Tom stares at him almost defiantly, legs too weak to support him, brain too oxygen-deprived to come up with a good excuse._

 _He passes out and wakes up in a hospital bed to a quiet tut, an explosion of gifts set around him, and a rather frazzled-looking Dumbledore picking through a box of his sweets.  
_ _Tom might’ve been mad if he thought he could keep them down._

 _When he’s finally able to speak, he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind._  
“I thought about that thing you said, you know.”  
_There’s a brief pause. The old professor raises an eyebrow, plucking out a deep pink jellybean._  
“You’ll have to be more specific than that, I’m afraid. I’ve been informed I quite often spout comments of note.”  
_Dumbledore stares at the jellybean as if it might pontificate all the secrets of the universe to him if he just stares a little longer- Tom honestly wouldn’t be surprised- and pops it in his mouth. Tom’s almost tempted to warn him. Almost. The vibrant magenta is a sure sign of a soap-flavoured bean but he just has to see the look on the infuriating man’s face when he realises. The reaction is more than worth it, and Tom can barely restrain his grin as the professor’s face twists and he spits the offending sweet into his palm._  
_Tom continues, his mood somewhat improved- “About being a leader. And what you said before, about it never being too late to change.”_

 _Dumbledore raises an eyebrow, momentarily distracted from his nausea._  
_“Really?”_  
Tom nods and on finding his schoolbag, passes the first sheet of his notes to him. He frowns at the flash of- sorrow?- that passes over the professor’s face but dismisses it as nothing. After all, the old codger has been trying to get him to turn over a new leaf for as long as he can remember. This is the closest he’ll ever get.  
_“And what did you think?”_  
Tom pauses, considering his words very carefully.  
“I thought it might be worth a try.”  
_“That’s- that’s very good, Tom. Very interesting.”  
_ _The words are not quite as cheerful as they should be._

 

**NOW**

The petals are larger now, rounded and full, deepening in colour. The pail by his bedside is overflowing with petals, the floor is overflowing with cards, his bed is overflowing with gifts and yet his mind- the one thing he needs brimming with ideas- is depressingly empty.

He’s already found, read, and dismissed his next option, a ritual. It would slow the progression of the disease hugely, buying him precious weeks or months of time.  
It's much more complicated than the spell- nothing he couldn’t handle normally, but like this, he doubts- and would require the blood of ‘the victim’s love’. That clearly wasn't an option. Hermione wasn't available to draw blood from and he isn't sure if he’d dare even if she was.

Tom lies awake at night, staring at the hospital wing ceiling and wondering if it’ll be the last time he ever does.  
Dumbledore or the Mediwitch will perform the spell if he enters the fatal stage of the disease and save his body, but nothing they can do will save him- his mind, memories, who Hermione influenced him to be- and he knows Dumbledore needs him to forget, anyway.

He is living on borrowed time.  
Sooner or later he will have to act, cure or no.


End file.
